


In the Closet... er... Shower...

by gracefultree



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6982570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson just wanted a shower to himself for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Closet... er... Shower...

**Author's Note:**

> What if they're actually straight?

At five in the morning, Wilson figured that he was guaranteed a shower to himself. He’d chosen the locker room as distant from the ER as possible, and he’d gone so far as to select one of the private rooms designed for the handicapped because he just wanted a few minutes to himself.  


He hadn’t had an orgasm in almost a week.  


Between his wife’s coldness (and refusing to allow him into bed or to have sex with her,) sleeping in his office, and House’s interference, there hadn’t been a chance, really. He didn’t think House was trying to thwart him, per se, but when Wilson slept in his office, House had the unerring ability to know about it and follow him to the showers to talk each morning while Wilson washed himself. Why House would be in so early even when he had a patient baffled him, but House was House: a law unto himself, always changing the rules by which he lived his life. (And for some reason he didn’t trust his fellows as much as usual to manage the overnight shifts. It made Wilson wonder if House was avoiding home the way he was, if for a different reason.)  


This morning, he _knew_ House was at home. His patient was on the way to recovery, and he’d said goodbye to his friend at eight last night. He sighed, lowering his head and letting the hot water sluice down his back. He rested his right forearm against the tile and gathered soap in his left hand.  


Another sigh, more of a groan. He was achingly hard, almost ready to burst with pent-up need. He quickened his motions. Close, he was close… he closed his eyes, ready for the final push.  


The door to the room banged open.  


“Occupied!” he shouted, frustrated beyond belief. He stopped moving, though he didn’t let go of himself. If he waited, maybe the other person would leave and he could finish. Was he being too hopeful?  


“I’m covered in vomit,” House answered. “Shove over.” He pulled back the curtain, stepping under the spray.  


House was, indeed, covered in vomit. Bloody vomit. All over his shirt, jeans and shoes. Damn. House had loved that pair.  


Wilson released himself, giving a last, regretfully ineffective tug. House’s eyes followed the movement. Of course. Wilson knew he’d never be allowed dignity as long as he had House as a friend. He braced himself for whatever humiliation was about to come out of House’s mouth.  


“Well, well, well, Little Jimmy’s enjoying himself this morning,” House commented.  


“No thanks to you,” Wilson snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and forcing himself to ignore the erection that pointedly fluttered in House’s direction when he shifted his weight. If he pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away faster, he reasoned. And if he acted like nothing was wrong, maybe House wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. Not that he really expected that, of course. He knew his friend, after all.  


“Did you have to come here? There are lots of other showers in the hospital.”  


“Ah, but none of them have you in them.”  


“Wait, you searched me out?” Wilson demanded. “You came _looking_ for me? What kind of a bastard are you, anyway?”  


“Disappointed I invaded your ‘alone time?’” House asked with a slightly less powerful sneer than he’d usually use. “Relax. I’ll finish you off after you’ve helped me out of this shit,” House replied without a second thought. “I think it’s all ruined, anyway.”  


Wilson took a step back, feeling the cold press of the wall’s tiles against his skin. House, offering him a hand-job? What? House shrugged as if it hadn’t mattered at all that he’d offered and pulled off his t-shirt, tossing it in the far corner. He stepped farther into the spray and let the water plaster his hair to his head and begin to wash vomit chunks from his jeans. He grabbed a handful of soap and lathered up his chest. Wilson blinked, mesmerized by the sight.  


“Been a while?”  


House’s voice startled Wilson out of his daze. “Huh?”  


“You’ve never stared at me like that.”  


“Like what?”  


“Like you want to eat me alive.”  


Wilson tried to back up again, but couldn’t move. He forced himself to look away from House. “No, it’s not that—“  


House chuckled, and Wilson heard the wet squeak of his sneakers as he stepped closer. “I promise I’ll help you with this,” House purred as he nuzzled at Wilson’s ear, a hand beside his head and his free hand doing delightfully pleasurable things to Wilson’s dick.  


“No, I —“  


“Come on, James,” House urged, rubbing his nose against Wilson’s cheek. Wilson opened his eyes and saw the desire in House’s. What blue he could see around the dilation sparkled. Their lips touched, and suddenly they were kissing, and he was very grateful for the wall behind him because House had started doing something else to his dick that felt even more wonderful than what he’d been doing before.  


Wilson broke free of the kiss. “Fine.”  


“Really?”  


“It’s not like we haven’t done this before,” Wilson explained. “Only last time it was _your_ vomit.” And last time they’d both been wearing shorts. And House hadn’t suggested a hand-job. And they hadn’t kissed.  


“Don’t remind me,” House muttered, holding on to Wilson’s shoulders to keep steady. He leaned in for another kiss.  


It took a few minutes to disentangle themselves. Slightly repulsed at the idea of touching the vomit-covered clothing, Wilson turned House to make sure the spray got as much off as possible before reaching for his fly. He could do this, he told himself. He used to undress House often in the aftermath of the infarction and Stacy leaving. He tried not to think of the kisses or promised hand-job.  


House kissed the side of his neck, running his fingers through Wilson’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. Wilson dropped to his knees as he peeled off the sodden denim, then unknotted the laces and took off House’s shoes and socks. Fortunately, the knots didn’t require too much effort, as his hands were shaking.  


Was he really doing this? Wilson asked himself. Was he really about to accept a hand-job from his best friend? Had they really kissed? Sober?  


He’d always expected their first kiss to be accompanied by huge amounts of alcohol. How else would they manage to get through their heterosexuality and homophobia to try it? How else would either of them allow himself to feel vulnerable enough to try?  


He struggled to get the jeans off his friend, the wet fabric clinging much more than he expected. He’d somehow managed to be wearing shorts when he was unceremoniously shoved into the pool at seventeen as the final test to pass his junior lifesaving class. He’d forgotten how cloth outlined every inch of the body, leaving nothing to the imagination. His hand accidentally brushed over House’s scar and he twitched his leg away.  


“Sorry.”  


House grunted in response.  


House’s erect penis bumped against Wilson’s face when he raised his head. He met House’s eyes, seeing his own surprise mirrored there. House, it seemed, had been staring into space while Wilson undressed him.  


“I’ve never —“ he started.  


“Me, neither,” House interrupted. He reached down and touched Wilson’s cheek in an oddly tender gesture. “You don’t have —“  


“You should lean against the wall,” Wilson said, interrupting him in turn. “Or sit.” House looked around, found the fold-down seat, and sat. Wilson shuffled forward on his knees. “I’m gonna suck at this,” he added.  


“That’s the point,” House replied with his usual bluster. Then he tugged on Wilson’s arm, pulling him halfway to his feet so their faces were at the same level again. He ran his thumb over Wilson’s lips. “Whatever you can do,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the shower spray. He paused. “Actually, let me go first,” he said at a regular volume. He coaxed Wilson to his feet so that his groin was at an appropriate level. He still had to bend over a little, but he didn’t seem to mind.  


House’s technique was horrible. He had no idea what he was doing, and it showed.  


“Goddamn it! Give me some fucking directions!” he demanded after a while. “My jaw’s going to fall off any second! Doing it is _nothing_ like getting one,” he added. Haltingly, Wilson tried to explain what he liked. He’d never had to put it into words before. Genius that he was, House took the instructions easily and seemingly without protest or hesitation.  


Wilson’s orgasm hit suddenly, without warning, when House started stroking the soft skin behind his balls.  


“God, that’s disgusting,” House declared, turning his head to spit. “I might actually have a little respect for the hookers who do this all the time.” He grabbed some water in his palm and gargled. He spat again.  


“You make it sound so appealing,” Wilson responded dryly, trying to get his breathing under control. He got back on his knees and pushed House’s thighs apart.  


“I said before, no one’s forcing you to do it.”  


“Oh, no, I stop now, you’re going to call me a chicken for the rest of my life. I’m not taking the chance.”  


House smiled, one of the rare, genuine smiles Wilson loved. “Good luck.” He winked.  


Wilson groaned and got to work. It wasn’t as awkward or distasteful as he expected, and House seemed pleased with what he was doing, though he did offer snide commentary on Wilson’s technique and how he could improve it.  


“I want you to come on my face,” Wilson blurted a bit too loudly when House warned him that he was ready to come. Time seemed to freeze. Wilson closed his eyes and waited. House took his erection in hand and gave a few quick tugs, aimed, and shot his load directly between Wilson’s eyes.  


They sat in stunned silence for a moment, then Wilson leaned into the spray to get the cum off his face. He met House’s eyes.  


“Pervert,” House said.  


“Slut,” Wilson responded.  


They burst into laughter at the same moment.  


“We’re never doing this again,” House declared.  


“I am _so_ straight,” Wilson answered.  


“We’re not talking about it, either.”  


“Or telling anyone.”  


“Of course not, idiot. That goes with not talking about it.”  


“You might be straighter than me,” Wilson suggested.  


“It wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be,” House admitted.  


“I thought we weren’t talking about it?”  


“As soon as we leave this shower, it never happened.”  


“Right. Never happened,” Wilson agreed. “Help me up. My knees are killing me.”  


House snickered. “Now you’re _really_ a woman.”  


“The dick you just sucked says otherwise,” Wilson shot back.  


They washed themselves off in companionable silence. House tossed his clothing and shoes in the trash and Wilson went to fetch him some scrubs and flip-flops. House complained that he’d brought the pink scrubs, but Wilson told him to suck it and they laughed at the new meaning to the regular insult. Wilson wiped his eyes, nodded to House, and turned away.  


“James,” House called, stopping him from leaving the room with a hand on his arm. “Thanks.”  


Wilson tilted his head and regarded House carefully. “You’re welcome. Thank you. I couldn’t have done that with anyone else.”  


House nodded. “Me, either.”  


They paused again.  


“If you ever —“  


“One last —“  


The kiss was tentative, without the passion of before. Hello and goodbye and maybe, all piled into a single press of the lips.  


Wilson walked to his office with a new warmth in his heart and a new sadness in his chest.  


“It’s kind of too bad the sex doesn’t work,” he said to himself. “We’d make a good couple, otherwise.”  


He could hear House’s response in his head as if his friend were right next to him.  


_“You’d make a great housewife for me. But this never happened. Forget it. Pretend. Lie.”_  


“I know, I know,” Wilson murmured. He sat at his desk and closed his eyes letting his head fall to his hands. There was a moment, when he had House’s dick in his mouth, when he’d tickled the head of his cock with his tongue, that he could have sworn House had whispered _“I love you, James.”_  


But that couldn’t be.  


Nor could the next thing House said.  


_“I wish you loved me back.”_  


Wilson felt tears on his cheeks. He wiped them away roughly.  


No, it wouldn’t work between them. They’d tear each other apart in days. House would spend weeks obsessing over the tiniest behaviors of his to look for evidence that he was cheating, and he’d go crazy with House’s negativity and demanding nature and lack of concern for anyone but himself. Neither of them liked the sex with each other, and while some couples would be willing to try to get past that, he doubted either of them would have the patience to wait it out and keep trying.  


No, it wouldn’t work.  


It never happened.  


House never said that.  


He had no desire to respond in kind.  


Not a bit.  


None.  


“I love you, too, Greg,” Wilson whispered into his hands.  


They’d never talk about it again. They’d never acknowledge it.  


Wilson gave one last sigh and reached for the first patient chart in his inbox.


End file.
